


Theory of Silence

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Circle of Magi, Gen, Guilt, Mages and Templars, Templars, The Gallows, Torn Bystander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver regrets becoming a templar in the Gallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theory of Silence

Carver has had this job for two weeks the first time he hears _it_. Not even two weeks - he’s been here ten days when they drag in a new girl, a new mage. She’s just about as old as he is, which means she could have been Bethany, or Bethany could have been her.

No, he will not think that way. This is his chance to be somebody besides Marian’s brother, and he fully intends to take it. This girl - the _mage_ has broken some rule. What it was doesn’t matter. He stands guard outside the solitary confinement chamber, glaring at her when she is led in. She wilts under his gaze. He is a templar now, he has power.

But then two of the other templars go in with her, and doesn’t that defeat the point of “solitary”?

No, don’t question. This is his job. This is his chance.

At first, the sounds from inside are indistinct - voices, certainly, but he couldn’t make out the words if he tried. Then, almost out of nowhere, flesh strikes flesh and the girl yelps, part reflex, part pain. He hears the templars then, clear as ever.

_Hold your skirts at your waist, mage,_ one of them spits, and the other snaps, _No, I want her hands bound. Do you hear me, girl? Put your hands together!_

The girl who could be his sister sobs, choked noises among the protests. _No, no, please, ser,_ she begs, _I promise I won’t ever do it again, please don’t -_

Another strike - harder this time, from the sound of it. _Shut your mouth, mage!_ , loud enough to startle even Carver, tone fierce enough to make him want to fling the door open and shout at them to stop.

But Hawke’s younger brother is a templar now. He will not step in. He will not. His hands ball into fists as he hears a shuffling, and cloth being yanked around.

A slapping sound, a groan, a grunt. Still the girl cries. _No, no, no, please, don’t, please, I can’t, it hurts -_

She’s cut off by a low growl, and Carver can’t make out the words, but nor does he want to.

A stifled sound, a gasp, more shuffling. He does not hear it. He _is_ not hearing it. This is not happening.

_See how easy it can be when you cooperate,_ one of the templars grunts breathlessly, and laughs. The sick bastard actually _laughs_ when he hears the girl gasping for breath like she’s crying. Of course she’s crying.

This is _not happening_. No one could ever - This is wrong.

A muffled scream from inside, high and panicked. One of the templars groans.

That could be Bethany. That could be Marian. What in the Void is he _doing_? Why - why is he - ?

“Ser Carver!” somebody booms from down the hall, waving him over.

He does a sharp about-face and all but runs to meet them. There are reports to sign off on, and maybe if he draws it out his hands will stop shaking, or no one will notice.

When Bethany was small and scared of the templars coming to take her away at night, Carver would make room for her in his bed. He’d let her scoot up against the wall and position himself between her and the door, hug her tight, and promise that anyone who wanted to go after her would have to get through him first. What would she say, now, to see him doing _this_?

The door swings open behind him what feels like an eternity later, and he almost flinches. Two sets of armored footsteps exit, and in the split second before the door shuts again, he hears the Bethany-Marian-mage girl retch and sob.

_Why - why - ?_

_I don’t know,_ he’d say if he could, but that isn’t enough. _I’m sorry,_ maybe, but that’s like giving a single bandage to someone who’s broken ten bones and calling it done.

“All right, Ser Carver?” the man in front of him asks, oblivious.

He nods, scrawling a signature across the line, and excuses himself. Walks past the door and the mage trapped within, makes it to his room before he notices the wet salt at his lips.

Maybe it’s for her.

Maybe for the sister he couldn’t protect.

Maybe for the sister he went out of his way to go against.

And maybe, he thinks, it doesn’t matter.

Maker damn it all.


End file.
